Melissa

  Geoffrey was speaking. “What do the servants say about the late Mr. Upjohn?”

  James hesitated. “We didn’t know much about him, sir, never having seen him much. But old Sally once told Hulda that he—he was a devil, sir. A real devil.”

  Now Geoffrey was silent for so long that James felt he had been dismissed. He tiptoed from the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Geoffrey sat, smoking and abstractedly listening to the wind that had increased its voice to a somber and threatening roar. He could hear the threshing and beating of the trees. A gush of smoke belched out into the room. The dogs stirred uneasily. Despite the noise of the wind, the house stood engulfed in a private silence.

  Geoffrey refilled his glass, returned to the fire. He watched the logs fall apart in a golden rush of sparks.

  So, Charles was “a real devil.” In a way, thought Geoffrey, I was almost as completely deceived as the others. I was almost as deceived as poor old Charlie himself who, had he been accused of malignance, would have been appalled and stricken, and would have denied the accusation with a rare and trembling passion. Can a man be guilty and believe himself to be innocent of the slightest vileness? Yes, it was pos sible. It probably happened every day, in every family, and the silent victims of such people were legion.

  Charles Upjohn had been a very subtle and perceptive man. Such men are not simpletons. Geoffrey’s thoughts grew darker, and he scowled. He began to doubt whether Charles would have been aghast at the accusation that he was “a real devil.” What a damn fool I was! said Geoffrey to himself. I’ll wager there was many a time when Charlie laughed at all of us. What an idealist he appeared to be, what a gentle, ingenuous saint, dreaming, scholarly, cloistered! But I’ll bet he was no idealist at all. He was too pleasant and agreeable, in the first place, and idealists are invariably the most repulsive and obnoxious animals under the sun. I’ll have to give that reflection more time, later on. It has possibilities.

  In the meantime, there is the enigma of Charles Upjohn. He may be dead. But he is still as potent as ever, perhaps more so. Funny that I never thought that old Charlie was potent. Now I see that he was. Of all those poor creatures in that household, Charlie alone had an inexorable will to live, was determined to order his life as he desired. There are always a thousand obstacles in the path of that fascinating idea, and the ordinary man compromises, for the sake of those others who are involved with him in living. But Charles did not compromise. He first convinced Amanda, and then the others, that he was defenseless, unworldly, a great child, needing protection against such a harsh world. So they took upon themselves all the burdens he ought to have carried, and which were his own responsibility, and left him free, free to study, to reflect, to suck out his family’s juices like a parasite, to continue to delude them that he was a mighty scholar.

  What a conscienceless wretch he was, and how implacable in his exploitation! Did he ever have a pang of remorse, of regret? I doubt it. He enjoyed life to the very last essence. It must have been hard for the old devil to die and free his family. But did he free them? I think not. I am afraid not. His hold on them is stronger than ever. He created a legend about himself when he was still alive. His family will add to that legend. Melissa will add to it.

  Geoffrey took the poker and plunged at the logs. He thought of the moment’s private conversation he had had with Amanda just before leaving. He had taken her hand and had said softly and hastily: “Dear Mrs. Upjohn, I know that this is a somewhat odd time to speak of this, but I am to be absent for a few weeks and I wish to give you plenty of time to consider. I should like your approval of my suit for Melissa.”

  Poor woman, how she had strained back from him in a very stupefaction of incredulity and amazement! Her colorless eyes had protruded and blazed, and she had put her hand to her heart, and her gasp was loud and audible. Then she had whispered:

  “Melissal You are speaking of— Melissa— Geoffrey?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Upjohn, Melissa.” He was concerned at her appearance, her sudden blanching, and her trembling, which became almost violent.

  She had stared at him, utterly speechless, then. Her hand was shaking in his. She moistened her dry lips, and her eyes moved helplessly in their reddened sockets. She could not believe it. Her gaze fastened on him, searching for mockery, for some explanation of this incredible thing.

  “Melissa,” she whispered, and there was a stunned sound in her voice. “I cannot understand—Melissa.”

  Now something flashed over her face, suspicious, dark and somber. Her voice was low but clearly audible when she said: “I do not understand. You—and Melissa. There are things I do not understand! Geoffrey, you do not know Melissa. I am her mother. She is my daughter. How is it possible for you to want Melissa?”

  Geoffrey considered. Her eyes searched his almost feverishly. She went on: “My conscience will not permit me to be silent. There are evil things about my daughter. She has brought grief and misery to this house. She robbed me of my husband, with her guileful ways. Charles was always so innocent, so easily deceived. Melissa is a bad woman, Geoffrey. My conscience compels me to tell you, so that you may reconsider, put aside this most unfeasible thought—”

  When he did not speak, she went on, in a louder and wilder tone: “You are a good and illustrious man, Geoffrey. I cannot permit you to destroy your life.”

  “You refuse, Mrs. Upjohn, to consider my suit?”

  She caught her breath, withdrew her fingers from his. She clasped her hands together, as if wringing them. She said: “Melissa hates you, Geoffrey. She was jealous of her father, and hated you because he loved you. She will not accept you.” He smiled, bent and touched her damp forehead with his lips. “Let me worry about that, dear friend. I shall need your help. Please help me,” He had left her then, and she had watched him go, dumbfounded.

  Geoffrey thought of Melissa for a long time, Melissa whom he had loved since she had been a child of fourteen and he a man of thirty. He thought of her quite dispassionately. He had always wanted her. He had wanted her even when he had not known he had loved her, five years ago, that drugged, sleeping girl with the chaste and lifeless face of an unawakened Psyche. But now, as he sat before the fire, and the clocks struck midnight, he saw there were formidable ghosts in his path, and the most formidable was the sinister ghost of Charles Upjohn. Geoffrey rubbed his big hands over his face, pressed his fingers against his eyes. The Psyche slept in a stone chamber which had no door, and she was guarded by an evil spirit who possessed her more in death than he had in life.

  Geoffrey got up and began to pace the room, back and forth, while the fire fell lower, the dogs snuffled in their dreams, and the wind, falling away, was only a faint thunder in the far hills.

  CHAPTER 6

  The wind beat against the old gray clapboards of the Upjohn house, swirled around the chimneys, and howled along the eaves. But the house was quiet and dark. However, those within it were not asleep. They lay and stared blindly into the darkness and listened to the wind, and each knew his own particular desolation.

  Andrew’s room was the smallest and darkest in the house, hid away at the end of the narrow and creaking corridor which had no windows, so that even on the brightest day it was necessary to grope to reach the door of that room. He had always had that room. It was not consciously chosen for him. But always Andrew had been a stranger in that household and had been given a stranger’s room, forgotten and isolated. Even his mother, Amanda, had a way of sometimes forgetting her son’s existence, though she often smiled at him and spoke to him affectionately. Charles had always been courteous towards his son, Melissa had consulted him, during his visits, about his studies, and Phoebe had expressed her admiration for his handsomeness. When he was absent, no one thought of him. It was not that he was the victim of his family’s indifference or coldness or deliberate neglect. But from his earliest childhood he had not impinged too vividly on the consciousness of his parents and his sisters. Perhaps it was because he was a
lways so silent, so giving to wandering through the woods and over the hills for long hours, and because he gave no one any trouble and was never known to have been a participant in any quarrel. Charles had vaguely thought of him as “amiable,” Amanda was once heard to say that “he never gave me a moment’s trouble,” Melissa had carelessly remarked that he was “such a nice boy,” and Phoebe observed that the farm always seemed to take a brisker and more prosperous air when Andrew was home.

  He lived on the periphery of the Upjohn family, his quiet orbit never quite touching the discordant edge of the family’s intense solar system. He revolved alone, in sight, but not in contact. He seemed always to be as unaware of the others as they were of him. No one ever conjectured whether Andrew loved this member of the family or that, or what he thought, or what he desired. Andrew was there, a tranquil and amicable body, easy to forget.

  Charles had been his tutor for several years, devoting three hours a day to the boy’s studies, until he had gone away to school. Yet Charles never quite remembered whether there had been any discussions about the history he had taught his son, or whether they had engaged in any of those spirited arguments so common between himself and his daughter Melissa. Andrew simply accepted his lessons without comment. He had been dull, rather than a dullard. He was, Charles had thought, the very essence of comfortable mediocrity, for all his shrewd, dark-blue eyes and the way he had of suddenly looking at his father with a kind of still intensity. Perhaps Charles had not been aware of that intensity, or he had dismissed it immediately from his thoughts, as he always had a way of dismissing that which made him even vaguely uncomfortable.

  In school, though no one of the Upjohns knew this, Andrew had become very popular with his teachers, and had made a few fast and devoted friends. When at home, he carried on a steady correspondence with these strangers. It was typical that no one in the family remarked on the many letters he received, or asked him about those who had sent them. They never expected to see Andrew display temper or umbrage or resentment or petulance, for he never had displayed them, even when a baby. They never exploited him, as good-natured people are usually exploited, just as they never quarrelled with him. When he had gone away to war, they were not overly concerned. Nothing ever happened to Andrew. Whenever his mother received a letter from him, she would examine the envelope with bewilderment before opening it, and then would exclaim: “Oh, it’s from Andrew,” with a note of surprise in her voice. In order that they might remember to write to him, the members of the family would be forced to make a note in their diaries or account-books.

  On a certain day, Charles, upon receiving a letter from Andrew’s headmaster, had ejaculated: “Good God, it seems that Andrew is finished with that school, and will return home next week! Whatever are we to do with him now, Melissa? Sixteen years old! Is it possible?”

  It was Melissa who had decided that Andrew must be a lawyer. Charles then learned that Melissa had given the subject of Andrew considerable thought during the past year. Charles had looked at his daughter with admiration and amusement. Imagine thinking of Andrew! Melissa had said: “I have been studying Andrew’s school reports this last year or so. He has a very analytical and logical mind, perfect for a lawyer. Of course, Papa, he could never qualify as a trial lawyer, for he has no brilliance or imagination, and no originality. But he has the qualities of doggedness and perseverance invaluable for legal research, which requires complete and meticulous attention to detail.”

  Charles had laughed with that indulgence invariably displayed by the vivacious of mind for the plodder. “Well, my dear,” he had said, “I trust your judgment. Andrew shall be a lawyer. He will never send home any enormous amounts of money, but perhaps we can rely upon a certain income, and he will be off our hands.”

  They “consulted” Andrew about his proposed career. Charles was never quite certain whether they had really consulted him, but he did remember that Melissa had brought Andrew into her father’s study, had outlined his gifts of mind to him, and had announced that Andrew was to go to Harvard the next autumn to begin his legal studies. Andrew had just sat, gravely smiling, occasionally nodding, and then had gone away. Neither Melissa nor Charles ever questioned themselves as to what the boy had really thought, or wanted. But then, no one ever questioned this. Andrew was someone to be disposed of neatly, filed away, and forgotten. Neither of them saw his last, uncertain, and imploring glance.

  Amanda had been aghast at her husband’s decision. “And where, pray, Charles, is the money to come from? Harvard, indeed! A lawyer, indeed! It has been my belief that Andrew would assume the burden of managing the farm after his school-days were over. He is a man now, and quite capable of managing the land.”

  Charles had talked to her gently and persuasively. Amanda never knew how the mention of money, and the need for it, disturbed and irritated him. But Charles knew that he could always appeal to Amanda on the basis of “good sense.” It was “good sense” to educate Andrew for the law. He would make considerable money, and help support the family beyond the value of his presence on the farm. The money would be “found” in some way. Amanda was not to distress her “little head.” Amanda, overcome as usual by her husband’s smooth and specious arguments, might have been content had she not seen the sudden triumphant flash of Melissa’s eyes. But it was no use to argue with Charles. He always managed to get his way, either by an air of exhausted and gentle weariness which it would be cruel to aggravate, or by his charming smile or his affectionate glance. Amanda retired from the argument, feeling, as always, that she had tangled with an invisible, soft, yet inexorable web, and that its filaments had choked her judgment.

  So Andrew had gone to Harvard. Here, in the company of more gifted and more agile minds, he was lost, as he had not been lost in his country school. He lumbered through his classes. He had to repeat, and repeat again, for the next four years. Then, on the outbreak of war between the States, he had enlisted in the army. Some way—and this always remained a dim mystery to his family—he had received a commission. He had returned from the war, and the prison camp, as serene, impassive and unmoved as ever. No one bothered to question him about his experiences. It was taken for granted that Andrew’s experiences would always be dull and uneventful. And, indeed, Andrew showed no marks of the war years. Rugged and quiet, rarely speaking in his slow, deep voice, he returned to Harvard without comment. He never showed even his mother the long and ugly bayonet slashes on his chest, the badly healed wound on his right leg. He never spoke of them. Again it was taken for granted that nothing had happened to Andrew.

  Andrew’s room was not only the smallest and darkest in the house, but the narrowest. It had one tiny window, high in the knotted-pine wall, which overlooked the roof of the kitchen below, a small segment of the kitchen garden, and the rear of the big gray barn. He had no view of meadow or hill. Views were not considered necessary for Andrew, who would probably not appreciate them. No one in the family knew that Andrew, when at home, would always arise at dawn and go outside to watch the morning skies. He moved silently, and always returned to his room unobserved, to the chorus of the fowl and the hosannah of the birds. Then he would lie on his hard and narrow bed, remembering, with a still glory on his big and rugged face.

  He lay on his back tonight, his big arms folded under his head, his eyes staring at the dim rectangle of the high little window, which no one had ever thought to soften with curtains. His large straight body was covered with a thin, frayed patchwork quilt. The straw mattress creaked faintly with his slow, heavy breathing and his slight movements. He listened to the enormous howl of the wind as it rattled his unshuttered window. The room was very cold and dank. But he did not feel the chill. His body was always so warm, so deeply pulsing.

  Through no one ever believed that Andrew “thought,” he was thinking. His thoughts were like the quiet strong beatings of his heart, sonorous, steadfast and calm. They were grave thoughts, but not somber, for Andrew was naturally attuned to the immense inevitabiliti
es of life. He was thinking of his father.

  He had been afraid of Charles, for something in him, pure and uncorrupted, had recognized corruption. But he did not know why he was afraid, for his fear was instinctive. Andrew had never been “clever” with words. He had no words for his fear and his doubt and, as he was so intensely loyal and devoted, he had quelled the voice of warning. He thought his shrinking was the result of his recognition of his own dullness and nothingness and inferiority.

  He had always been afraid of Melissa, too, because she reflected so much of his father’s light, and was always so assured, so cold, and so definite in her decisions. He had accepted their decisions about his life as he always accepted everything about them. They knew best. His own passionate yet slow cravings, his own desperate hunger, were stupid things, too shameful to mention. They knew all the wise decisions; they knew him better than he knew himself. This he believed with complete faith.

  He hated his thick and unresponsive tongue, which could never express his thoughts. He thought of himself as dumb and ignorant, heavy of movement, amorphic, sluggish of comprehension. The vast tides that rolled and retreated and surged in him were too enormous for words, and so he condemned them as foolish and shameful. Sometimes he had lingered on the edge of a conversation between Melissa and his father, and had listened to them, wondering, vaguely exalted, and deeply moved. He did not understand a word they said, but he was convinced that it was splendid beyond all understanding. Finally, becoming aware of him, they had flung him the half-amused, half-impatient, glance which one casts at a big puppy lurking in the background, and he had felt himself dismissed, and had slunk away.